


Home Is Not a Place (It's a Feeling)

by whiskeywitch



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ciri and Her Many Dads, Domestic Fluff, Giant Spiders, Implied Relationships, M/M, Menstruation, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25372039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywitch/pseuds/whiskeywitch
Summary: Ciri spends a winter day pestering her five witcher dads.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lambert/Original Male Character, implied relationships - Relationship
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	Home Is Not a Place (It's a Feeling)

**Author's Note:**

> This was sparked by a cute doodle of Geralt crocheting that was done by geraltsbeard on Tumblr. This one is for you!

Ciri wakes to the sound of the wind whipping around the crumbling towers and battlements of Kaer Morhen. Ice and snow are spattering on the leaded glass of her bedroom window. The small diamond-shaped panes are so warped with age that they obscure the view through them. 

Ciri rolls over, wrapped tightly in her blankets. The light of early morning is dim and gray. She wants to go back to sleep, but a cramp is nagging at her abdomen. Is she having her period again already? Pox on it. 

Ciri thought she was dying the first time she had a clot of blood in her underwear. Her witcher family—Geralt, Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, and Casmir—handled it about as well as could be expected of five men trying to raise a maturing young girl. 

She sits up and makes a small noise of distress. There is a red splotch on her sheets. Her nightshirt, one of Geralt's old tunics, has been spared because it was rucked up around her waist. Her cramps worsen as she gets out of bed. She feels shivery and upset while she scrubs as much of the blood as she can out of her mattress. Fresh underwear, with clean rags lining the crotch, doesn't improve her spirits. Her room is cold, so she pulls on a pair of thick stockings. 

She wants to lay back down but the wet spot from her scrubbing takes up a considerable amount of space on the mattress. She drags her ratty quilt off the bed and goes to search for a drier place to sleep. 

Down the hall and around the corner is Geralt’s room. She knows she is far too old to be acting like such a baby, but she is longing for the comfort the milk-haired witcher offers her without complaint. Their first few nights together, when the dark forest seemed vast and full of danger, she slept cuddled against him by the fire. She kept her face buried against his chest and shoulder, trying to block out the nightmares of Cintra burning. Sometimes he told her stories or riddles, but most of the time he was silent as he stroked her hair until she fell asleep. 

Ciri nudges open the heavy wooden door. Geralt isn’t sleeping alone. On the other side of the bed is Casmir. All that is visible of him is his messy braid of thick red hair. Strange. If Geralt has anyone in his bed, it’s Eskel. Casmir is usually with Lambert. Ciri has a vague understanding of these gross grownup things, thanks to her grandmother and Eist's open flirting. There are no clothes on the cold stone floor, so Ciri decides it is safe to proceed. 

The small, freckled witcher stirs at the sound of the door creaking closed behind Ciri. “Morning,” he says sleepily. 

“Morning,” Ciri echoes, dragging her blanket with her. 

At the sounds of voices, Geralt rolls over. He’s frowning and tired-looking, hair a mess. “Did you have a nightmare?” he asks. 

Casmir is already scooting over, allowing Ciri access to the warm spot he’s created. Geralt grumbles as he is forced to surrender some of his side of the bed. 

“I’m having a _day_ ,” Ciri says. She puts emphasis on the last word. 

“Oh,” Casmir murmurs. “Come here, lay down… Do you have cramps? Did you take medicine?” 

Ciri stretches out beside him and covers herself with her soft, heavy quilt. Casmir, the gentlest of the five witchers and by far the most knowledgeable in healing, is easy to talk to about such things. “I did. I got some blood on my bed…” 

“Don’t fret.” Casmir yawns. “Just rest.” 

Ciri snuggles up to him and Casmir responds by laying a lean arm across her back. She is happy for the warmth and closeness and protection. Ciri nods off to the sound of the wind and snow outside, and the three of them sleep for a few more hours. 

* * *

Ciri doesn’t have to do any physical training when she is menstruating. If cramps are bothering her, the witchers cancel her studies as well. She isn’t feeling poorly after breakfast, so Vesemir bores her to death with a lesson about ekimmaras. Botany with Casmir is just as dull. 

“This is hideously boring,” Ciri says.

Casmir is unmoved. “Your displeasure is noted. But you need to be able to identify these mushrooms.” 

“I hate mushrooms, so there is no danger of me eating any of them,” Ciri grouses. She is feeling moody. 

“That's just as well, but you may one day find yourself hungry enough to sample them,” Casmir says evenly. “And some are not for eating.” 

“I know!” Ciri barks. 

Casmir pinches the bridge of his freckled nose and screws his eyes shut in a moment of frustration. This is the closest he ever gets to losing his temper with her. “All right. Go find something else to do.” 

Ciri opens her mouth to apologize but Casmir's large, dusty botany textbook is already being thumped closed. She slips off the rough-hewn bench and sulks away. 

Geralt and Eskel are in the stables, feeding and brushing the five horses that live there. Ciri pets the friendlier mounts and gives the spooky ones a wide berth. Much like Casmir, his black gelding is gentle and affectionate. He searches Ciri for treats while she pats him. Roach is one she avoids. The chestnut mare has a penchant for biting anyone and anything that has its back turned. She once saw Roach very deliberately reach out of her stall and bite Lambert in the upper arm, leaving a magnificent bruise. 

The two witchers don't appear to notice her, but she knows better. She learned long ago that you can't sneak up on a witcher, though she still tries. 

“Thought you were studying,” Geralt says, not looking up from brushing Roach. 

“I was. Ekimmaras and mushrooms,” Ciri replies. “Bored me to tears.”

“A good witcher is knowledgeable about both,” Eskel says cheerfully. 

Ciri pouts a bit. She desperately wants to be a witcher like Geralt. Silent and graceful like a cat, deadly with a blade… She sighs with admiration. 

“I want to help with the horses,” she says. 

Geralt shakes his head once. “We're nearly finished. If you're intent on freezing out here, you can milk the goats.” 

Ciri groans. Her plan to get away from mildewed texts is quickly backfiring. Geralt has seen right through her plan. 

“Where is Lambert?” she asks, trying to deflect. 

“He's out hunting.” 

“I wish he'd taken me with him,” she laments. 

“Not a chance with all that loud and meaningful sighing you're doing,” Geralt says. “You’d best find something to do. Before Vesemir senses your idle hands and _finds_ something for you to do.” 

That's all the warning she needs. She milks the goats and hauls the pail into the vast kitchen, where Casmir is making tea. No doubt some foul concoction that tastes like hot grass water. 

“Sorry I was a brat,” Ciri blurts out. 

“No need to be sorry. You’re having a _day_ ,” Casmir says, putting emphasis on the last word like Ciri does. “And you’d have to be a lot worse to be moody by witcher standards.” 

She smiles at that. 

“Say, are you afraid of spiders?” Casmir asks, stirring honey into his chipped mug. 

Ciri brightens at such a seemingly random question. She loves Casmir and his sudden, sideways jaunts into different topics. “No, I’m not afraid of anything,” she boasts. 

“Everyone is afraid of something. And lots of people are afraid of spiders.” 

Ciri backtracks a little. “Depends on how big and ferocious, I suppose. Why?” 

“I have a little chore to do today. I was wondering if you’d help me?” 

“What does it have to do with spiders?” 

Casmir takes a sip of tea. “I keep giant silk spiders,” he says, as casually as one would say they have a pet cat. 

“What!” Ciri cries, suddenly vibrating with anticipation.

She has no clue what a giant silk spider is or why Casmir has them, but she needs to see them. Immediately. She practically leaps alongside Casmir like an excited lamb while he gathers up his supplies. 

Kaer Morhen reminds her of Cintra in many ways, full of hidey-holes and passageways. There are places in the expansive fortress that she is not allowed to explore, and they are currently going to one of those places. It’s not that Kaer Morhen holds many secrets anymore, but rather there are sections of the crumbling keep that were damaged during the assault and remain unstable to this day. 

“We get to go down below?” Ciri says. She is carrying two seemingly random items—a jar of strawberry preserves and a little basket of wooden bobbins. 

“Yes, now watch your step,” Casmir says. “There are broken stairs.” 

The staircase is narrow and winds ever downward into the pitch black. Casmir is ahead of her and soon they are in complete darkness. 

“Cas, I can’t see!” 

“Oh, I forgot.” 

There are torches along the wall at regular intervals, but Casmir hasn't been lighting them because he can see in the dark. He makes a gesture with his hand, igniting torches as they go. 

“Will I ever be able to see in the dark like a witcher?” 

“No, Ciri. You have to keep eating carrots, unfortunately.” 

“Better than mushrooms,” she says. After a pause, she asks, “Why not?” 

“Because we don’t make witchers anymore. The process is lost to us,” Casmir says. He has explained this to Ciri before, but doesn’t seem bothered to talk about it again. “And that’s a good thing. It was a cruel thing to do.” 

“But necessary,” Ciri says, echoing what Geralt has told her. 

Casmir looks over his shoulder at her. His pupils are wide and they reflect blue and green, like an animal's in the dark. “...According to some.” 

Ciri shivers under that gaze, so she changes the subject. “What about the Signs? Can I learn those?” she asks, watching Casmir light another torch. 

“We didn’t start learning them until after the Trials, so I don’t know how that affects one’s ability. That would be a question for Vesemir.”

Ciri sighs. “Well, if I can’t see in the dark and I can’t use the Signs, how am I supposed to become a witcher?” 

“You don’t want to be a witcher, Ciri. It’s lonely work.” There’s no usual humor in his voice. “One of the reasons why I changed careers.” 

“Lambert says you stay here because—” She stops when Casmir turns to look at her again. His expression is mostly indecipherable, but it is not a happy one. “—because you have brain weasels.” 

Whatever reaction Ciri is bracing for, she isn’t expecting him to laugh. He almost seems relieved by her words. It delights her. 

“That’s… a way to put it.” 

“What are brain weasels?” Ciri asks. 

“A discussion for another time, pet. Our focus today is spiders.” 

Brain weasels are quickly forgotten as they reach the bottom of the stairs. It is dank and damp down here, even in the depth of winter. 

“Down that way is the catacombs,” Casmir says to the left. “It’s partially collapsed, so you must never go spooking around over there. Promise?” 

“Yes,” she says, offering him her hand so they can pinky swear. 

They seal their pact and Casmir leads her to the right. She can see in the dim that there are many rooms, offshoots, and corridors down here. 

“Actually, just don’t come down here at all, now that I think of it,” Casmir says, looking around. 

Ciri promises that she won’t. 

They walk down another few steps and the ceiling gets low. Casmir and Ciri are short enough to clear it without ducking, but the other witchers would have to stoop. At the end of this small, cobwebbed hall is a door. 

“All right, now promise you won’t scream?” Casmir asks, taking a torch down from the nearest sconce and lighting it with a flick of his wrist. “The spiders are sensitive to noise.” 

Ciri is getting frightened. She wants to hold Casmir’s hand. Instead, she hugs the glass jar and the bobbins to her chest. “I promise…” 

Casmir opens the door and they step in. At first, all Ciri sees is drapes of white gossamer. But upon further inspection, she can tell that it is thick layers of cobweb. 

Ciri starts to whisper. “Where are the—?” 

As if on cue, a magnificently huge spider drops down on a spindle of web in front of them. Ciri yelps, hiding herself behind Casmir. The jar of preserves slips out of her arms and smashes on the stone floor with a crystalline crash. Startled, the spider pulls itself upward and disappears. 

“I’m sorry!” she cries. 

Casmir shushes her. “You’re all right, you’re all right. Just mind the broken glass,” he says, stepping to the side while keeping an arm around her. “This might actually work out well. See?” 

Ciri is no longer feeling excited and adventurous. She is clinging to the back of Casmir’s tunic. It takes her a moment to get the courage to look. In the torchlight, she can see what seems to be a million tiny glowing eyes staring at them through the webs. There is soft movement. 

“Oh, no!” Ciri whimpers, hiding her face again. 

“No, it’s good! They love preserves,” Casmir says. 

Slowly, the spiders are advancing toward them. They are great, fuzzy creatures the size of rabbits. They chitter softly as they gather around the smashed jar, delicately picking their way through the broken glass to get at the strawberry spread. 

“What?” Ciri asks. “I don’t understand.” 

“They’re harmless. They like to eat fruit and bugs. And in exchange, I get their silk,” Casmir says. “Here, hold the torch.” 

Ciri watches as Casmir kneels down on the floor. While the spiders are distracted by the sweet snack, he strokes their furry backs. Ciri is dumbfounded. 

“They’re friendly?” 

“As friendly as spiders could be, I suppose. They don’t bite,” the witcher says.

The spiders are casting thin filaments of silk everywhere, obviously pleased. Casmir takes up a bobbin and starts winding. Ciri is surprised to see that the silk doesn’t break like normal spiderwebs do. 

“What do you need their silk for?” she asks. 

“I make sutures with them.”

“...Like stitches?” 

Casmir nods. “Normal sutures have to be cut out when the wound is healed, and that’s fine if your wound is superficial. These dissolve, so I can mend injuries inside people and then close them up.” 

One of the spiders approaches Ciri, interested in the preserves splattered on her boots. She is entertained by the creature sampling the treat with its small forelegs and bringing them to its mouth. 

Casmir winds up several bobbins of the translucent, iridescent silk. When he is satisfied with what he has harvested, he stands. “Want to give them a pet before we go?” 

Ciri nods and Casmir takes the torch from her. She crouches to pet the one that is still cleaning up the toe of her boot. The gray fuzz on its back looks bristly but it is soft to the touch. 

Ciri carries the bobbins back upstairs. She can't believe that Casmir still trusts her to carry anything, let alone the precious spider silk, after she dropped the jar. She feels badly about it, but Casmir tells her the spiders will have a nice feast and they can clean up the glass later. 

She yammers about her adventure to Eskel, Geralt, and Vesemir while she toasts herself by the fire. She is laying on her front, using the warm tile floor to soothe her cramps. Casmir smiles to himself, listening as he works the spider silk into what will become the special sutures. It’s tedious work, but he seems to enjoy it. The light is fading even in the mid-afternoon. Ciri migrates over to the bearskin on the floor, sleepy and wishing she had her quilt. 

* * *

She’s awoken by the nudge of a boot. “Hey, brat. Supper.” 

It’s Lambert. When she doesn’t respond right away, he nudges her again, directly in the ribs. His boot is so wet and cold that she can feel it through her shirt. He must have just come inside. She’s cramping and the current harassment is just enough to make her temper flare. 

“Stop! Your boot is wet!” 

“And you’re testy!” Lambert says, impressed. 

He’s equal parts mean older brother and weird uncle. Ciri hates and adores him simultaneously. She leaves the warmth of the fire and goes to take some medicine, before coming down the stairs to the kitchen. 

In Kaer Morhen, being called to supper doesn’t mean it’s time to eat. It means it’s time to help prepare food. The witchers have been busy while she was asleep. Eskel and Geralt caught salmon, and Ciri is a little miffed she wasn’t invited to go with them. She’s also miffed that she did not get to help Casmir gut and prepare them. 

It looks like there is seasoned rice, dark bread, dried apples, and—if she’s feeling brave—a very spicy sauerkraut to go with the salmon. 

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Eskel says. 

Ciri grumbles at him. She also grumbles at Geralt, who tells her to get a knife and cut bread. The knife is dull and keeps smashing the loaf instead of slicing it. Lambert is prowling the kitchen, apparently absolved from helping because he spent the day hunting. 

“Ow! Whoreson!” 

That’s the sound of Lambert pinching Casmir, probably somewhere inappropriate. Ciri makes a small noise of disgust at the flirtation. Lambert, boyish in every way, shows affection by pulling hair, pinching, and inflicting other minor injuries. In retrospect, she should have seen it coming. There is a short, swift yank on her little ponytail as Lambert passes by. 

“Don’t!” she screeches, much louder than she intends. 

The retribution is swift and from multiple angles. Geralt cuffs the younger witcher in the shoulder just as Casmir is giving him a considerable wallop with a greasy spatula. Eskel and Vesemir are equally unamused. 

“Stop deviling her!" Geralt snarls. "For fuck's sake." 

Lambert is completely unfazed. 

“She’s having a _day_ ,” Casmir hisses. 

Lambert snorts. “Sounds like everyone in this place is on the rag.” 

At that, Vesemir drags the youngest witcher out of the kitchen for a venomous lecture. Ciri wipes away little frustrated tears. She’s angrier at the stupid bread than at Lambert. Geralt finally gives her a little nudge and takes over with a better technique. She’s massacred half the loaf already. 

“He’s a puke, isn’t he,” Casmir says, handing her a cold, wet towel.

Ciri nods. She takes the silent cue and holds the cloth against her hot, tear-streaked face for a few minutes. She wants to sob but takes a few deep breaths instead. Casmir’s hand is on the middle of her back. Not rubbing, just holding her steady. 

Dinner is subdued with Lambert sulking instead of needling everyone. Ciri is in better spirits by the time she helps Eskel clear the table and do dishes. She hates playing scullery maid, and she had honestly never cleaned a dish in her life before she came here. But it feels good to have a hand in everything that makes a home run smoothly. 

At first, it was curious to see men—witchers, no less—doing domestic chores like laundry, cooking, cleaning, and dishes. But she has learned that Kaer Morhen was only ever a school for boys. Instead of hiring servants, the students and instructors did most of the work. 

But even now, it’s a weird and wonderful sight to see Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, with a pile of knitted yarn in his lap. Eskel has gone to bed and Lambert is putting elk and salmon in the smokehouse. That leaves Vesemir nodding off in his chair while Casmir and Geralt have their Stitch and Bitch. At least that’s what Lambert calls it. Ciri giggles about the name as she spreads out in front of the fire. She has some pieces of old parchment and charcoal pencils to draw with. Geralt showed her how to carefully sharpen them with a little knife. 

For the past few nights, she has been working on a particularly expansive piece. It’s Kaer Morhen, rendered from her memory. Tonight she is drawing a winding staircase that leads down to the room where the spiders are. Next to it is the catacombs, which are obviously full of skulls, coffins, and rats. 

Geralt is sitting on a chair nearby, focused on his work. He is using a short, thick needle to weave together pieces of yarn. Ciri can’t remember the name of the craft, but she admires the perfect stitches he produces in rows. The yarn is a beautiful deep blue, colored with woad. Casmir has promised they will show her how to dye fiber when the weather is nicer. 

She has been staring at Geralt for a few long minutes, and their eyes meet when he glances up. The corner of his pale mouth quirks up into a smile. 

“Will you show me how to do that sometime?” she asks. 

The witcher makes an affirmative noise. “Once I finish this scarf for you.” 

Ciri had a scarf at the beginning of the winter, but the goats got hold of it and unraveled one end with their chewing. 

“Ahh, the nightly Stitch and Bitch,” Lambert says when he comes in the doorway. 

Casmir rolls his eyes but doesn’t look up from the quilt he is sewing together. Ciri has commandeered his own, so he is making another. It’s a loud, haphazard piecing of scraps. 

“Do you sew?” Ciri asks Lambert. 

“When I have to,” he says. 

Casmir snorts. “Please, you can’t even darn a sock.” 

Lambert takes off his cloak and comes to sit on the bearskin rug, opposite Ciri. He rubs his hands together and then holds them out for a few moments. “Hey, sorry about earlier,” he says. 

Ciri glances up and then quickly looks back down, flustered. “It’s okay.” 

“What are you drawing?” Lambert asks with interest. He moves to lay on his front like her and peers at the drawing. 

“It’s supposed to be Kaer Morhen,” she says. “See? These are the battlements.” 

“Yes, I see. It’s very good. We should take down one of these ugly tapestries and put this up instead,” Lambert muses. 

“I _made_ one of those,” Casmir growls. 

Ciri wants to laugh, but a yawn catches her off guard. 

“Time for bed,” Geralt says. 

Ciri whines. “No!”

“It’s time. You can either lay there and fuss, or get into bed in time for a story,” Geralt says. 

He’s starting to gather up his knitting, so Ciri knows he’s serious. They usually have a race. Ciri has to have her hair brushed and get in bed before he comes to tuck her in. Otherwise, no story. She hasn’t yet gotten wise to the fact that Geralt moves very slowly, and she’s never truly been in any danger of missing out on a bedtime tale. 

Still, she plays with her jaw-length hair, wishing it was long and thick like Casmir’s so she could braid it. It was so matted with mud and tangled when she came to Kaer Morhen that the witchers had to saw it off with a pair of shears. She launches herself onto the mattress and under the covers when she hears the door creak. 

Geralt is already tutting at her. “I even gave you a head start.” 

“I’m in bed!” She huffs as she burrows under the layers of blankets and furs. “I’m going to freeze to death tonight, Geralt. I can feel it.” 

“As hot blooded as you are? Not a chance.” But Geralt stokes the fire and makes sure it will keep her comfortable throughout the night. “How are you feeling otherwise?” 

Ciri knows it’s Geralt’s roundabout way of asking about her period. “I’m fine. Ready for my story,” she says primly. 

There’s that little smirk playing at his mouth again. Ciri knows she is getting too old for bedtime stories, but Geralt seems happy to indulge her. She relishes the individual attention. Her favorite tales are the true ones and that’s what she asks for this wintry evening. Geralt obliges. Afterward, she dreams about Casmir, tiny and ferocious despite a near-mortal wound, and his inadvertent tangle with a mother dragon. Morning brings her resolve to ask him all about it. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to read more about my Witcher OC, check out my fic "Between Two Witchers." Thanks for reading!


End file.
